As I wrote with it I wondered if my mother knew of my elation and glee when I discovered that this was the pen of my favorite bedtime story, of her tales of her father. And finally I was worthy of holding its ink black body.

Excalibur could not have given me better assurance.

As I continued to write I wondered, does my grandfather know? When he, working his multiple jobs and dancing around the wealthy spheres of rich people, would find this pen as he cleaned out the backseat of his taxi, and that this pen will be my sword, my joy and my love? I know that he thought about returning it, he told my mother that, but he wasn’t sure how he would contact the dozens of people whose lives had bounced off from his life faster than a ping-pong ball against table corners the second they paid and left.

So, he adjusted his cap, unnecessarily straightened the half-empty bottle of coca cola in his cup holder as his thoughts temporarily quenched his constant thirst for the sugary drink (that his family later named author of his diabetes, which is in term the author of his bedridden state). He thought of his daughter…her eyes bright but her mind brighter.

When was the last time he’s gotten her something?

So, he slipped the thing into his shirt pocket, into his daughter’s hands, and now

into mine.

Now, now, the pen bleeds into tales, now, weaving fantasy and dreams and objects of the metaphysical. One of them is about a girl with her grandfather’s pen, which he found it in the back of his taxi.


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